


Quite a Pair

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, I have so many headcanons for these two, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-28
Updated: 2016-09-28
Packaged: 2018-08-18 10:04:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8158276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: These are the things Marcheaux knows.





	

Nothing can beat the thrill of a fight. He relishes in the clash of fists colliding with flesh, and the iron tang of blood in his mouth when his opponent lands a hit; the sound of the crowd cheering, and the delight of hearing Feron’s harsh, rare laugh when he executes a particularly brutal move. He learned how to fight rough on the streets—had to in order to survive. There is no more honour in this than there was in the gutter, and yet there is a peculiar sense of euphoria that rushes over him in victory, when he sees the Governor’s mouth twist with a hint of pride at his display.

 

-

 

When Feron shouts, it sends him back to years before—a time when they were not as they are now—when they were strangers. He can almost smell the stench of hopelessness on himself. He bows his head.

“Look at us. We are quite a pair,” Feron murmurs. “Fit only for the infirmary.”

He knows a reprieve when he’s given one, and dares to meet Feron’s eyes, dropping to his knees in relief when he is beckoned forwards. He presses his cheek against Feron’s thigh, the fine material caressing his skin.

“You are fit for more than that,” he murmurs against the seam, hoping that speaking it aloud might make it true.

 

-

 

This thing between them is nameless. It’s not entirely about attraction, and it’s not even about the sex. But there’s something in the way Feron grips his shoulders with tight fingers, pressing hard enough to leave a mark. The way the Governor orders, commands—chasing relief—and he responds through obedience. There’s a reason he lets Feron use him as a means to a brief respite from pain when the opiates aren’t quite enough. This is not love, but a twisted version of it, perhaps. Feron’s face is more familiar to him than his own now.

 

-

 

He has never asked before, about the war. Perhaps, deep down, he always knew the reason he remained in Paris. But it is one thing to know it, and another to have it thrown in his face. The Musketeer might use it as a jeer—to draw the conclusion that he is a coward, hiding behind the power of the Governor—but the truth is that it is the other way around. It was not that he did not want to go, but that Feron did not allow him to.

That was the how. More importantly though, is the _why_.

There is a glint of something in Feron’s eyes when he asks the question. A simple question, with an even simpler answer.

“I could not have the war take you from me.”

 

-

 

Feron will leave him before the year is out. His mind might be as sharp as ever, but his body is failing, growing weaker by the day. He is relying on him for relief with increasing regularity.

He presses his fingers into the Governor’s back, working his elbow against the man’s spine, hoping to relieve some of the pressure building there. His symptoms are only getting worse.

“My hands, Georges. They’re numb.”

“It will pass,” he says, and manages to keep his voice steady. He is trying very hard to believe it.

 _What will Paris do without you?_ he wants to ask, but doesn’t, for fear it would sound too much like, _what will I do without you?_

 

-

 

The Red Guards are considered the scourge of Paris. It was different before, when the Musketeers were away and the Governor had complete control. But now, they find themselves working in opposition at every turn.

“You seem to be making a habit of this, Georges—turning up to my chambers, beaten and bloodied.” Feron traces the scar down his eye with one long fingertip. The touch calls to mind the sear of Feron’s knife, pressed to his skin. “You will have quite the collection soon.”

“It is Minister Treville,” he says, when he finds his voice. “He seems to have taken a dislike to me.”

Feron swipes at his cut lip with his handkerchief, in what is becoming a practised move. “He’s only hurting you because he can’t touch me. Rest assured, Treville will pay.”

“Good,” he spits. “He kicked me down and told me to crawl back to you.”

Feron’s fingers tighten against the back of his neck possessively. “To your knees then Georges,” he commands, a fire burning in his eyes, “and I will see if I can forgive you.”

He obeys readily.

 

-

 

If he is to be shackled to anyone, he is glad it is to this man, of all on Earth. His patron, his protector; the man who raised him out of the gutter. The man whose mark he wears willingly.

He cannot recall when he stopped knocking—seeking permission to enter Feron’s chambers—and instead started striding in. Feron has no business that he is not party to.

Today, the Governor is not alone. Grimaud lurks behind, his face unreadable.

“Not now, Georges,” Feron dismisses. There is agitation in his voice. No doubt he will impart the reason for this later, when they are alone. 

He has been a soldier and a mercenary: a sell-sword and a gun for hire. He has never played the role of a confidant, until Feron made him his own.

 

-

 

This is what Feron was born for: lording his power over unsuspecting, weak-willed men. The Dutch Ambassador is easily distracted by his trick, eyes following every woman that walks past.

It is a shame, he thinks, because Feron is easily the most seductive thing in the room.

It is to their advantage though, as it makes the Ambassador even easier to lie to. It requires barely any of the methods of persuasion that he knows Feron has in his arsenal.

He has his own part to play, of course. He is Feron’s most prized weapon, but tonight a mere scowl is enough to convince the Ambassador that the best course of action is to agree to the Governor’s terms. The fool will come to realise of course, but by then it will be far too late.

Business concluded, they leave the Ambassador to his pleasures. They have their own to indulge.

 

-

 

It is a relief when Feron finally opens the door to him. For a few brief, horrifying moments, he could almost imagine kicking down the wood to find the Governor unmoving on the other side. He is alive, but drained, leaning heavily against the wall.

“Governor?”

“Georges...” Feron’s voice is a sinful caress. “Get rid of them.”

He does not need to ask how Feron knows that there are others there; it does not matter. The only thing that matters is that Feron is relying upon him once more.

 

-

 

Feron is gone in a way that neither of them could have anticipated. When he first sees him, propped against the tree, it is all he can do not to fall to the ground with shock. He had not even known that Feron was going to be here.

The Musketeers—either out of respect or disrespect, he cannot tell—lead their horses away. There is no one left around to see. He leaves his hand lingering against the cool leather of his cloak until the warmth seeps through.

He waits there, crouched next to Feron’s body for an indeterminable time, until men arrive from the palace to take him away. He follows the carriage all the way back to the Louvre, eyes fixed on the shrouded figure inside. He is truly alone in the world once more.

 

-

 

He had not expected anyone else to come to this place, and so the sound of slowly approaching footsteps against the stone floor of the crypt is enough to startle him into looking around.

He takes a half-step, intending to leave, when the King speaks.

“Stay.”

The word stills his feet immediately, rooting him in place. It is ingrained in him to obey a command.

They are silent for a long time, just staring at the cold granite—the words etched into the stone. _Loyal son of France_. He wonders if this is what swayed Feron in his choice. He recalls Grimaud’s words from that day: “He said he would betray us before the King.” _No_ , he thinks bitterly, _he betrayed you_. Whatever choice Feron made, he would have accepted it, even if that meant following him to the grave.

“You loved him too,” the King says weakly, after a while. 

He thinks about trying to deny it, but his eyes are wet with unshed tears, and the King is looking at him with understanding, and there is no point.

 

-

 

Living without Feron is like learning to survive again, rather than thrive.

It turns out that survival mostly involves getting drunk in taverns and fighting anyone unfortunate enough to question his actions. His Red Guards might need a leader, but so does he. He was nothing before Feron, and now, once more, is nothing again.

It makes sense, when Grimaud turns up to drag him away from nursing yet another beaker, to follow him out into the street. It makes sense to throw the first punch, and he feels a grim satisfaction at the startled grunt of pain. He accepts the flurry of punches in return, not even bothering to put up any form of defence until he’s lying on the floor, beaten. He spits blood onto the cobbles. Grimaud turns away, and it makes sense to follow him. He has never known how to be honourable. The fight is the only thing he’s got left.

 

-

 

Men like him are like rats—they go back to places they know best. Perhaps this is why he finds himself, night after night, sprawled against the chaise longue in Feron’s office.

There is a welcome familiarity in the hard press of wood into his spine, and the seeping cold of the floor numbing his limbs. It is impossible to count how many nights he spent like this, when Feron was alive. Sometimes, in the lucid state between sleeping and awake, he can still hear the ragged breaths of the man reclined above him; can feel Feron’s fingers clawing at his shoulder in the grips of his pain. When he wakes, shaking, to find that he is still alone, it is a fight to recall it at all.

No one has ever come to clear the office, and so he stays, anchoring himself to the only place that ever felt like home.

 

-

 

Treville does pay in the end. He feels a bitterness in the fact that it is Grimaud to end it; the moment Treville speaks of Feron’s murder, it is all he can do not to leave the safety of the building and end it himself. Neither man cares for the man they speak of.

It is even harder to accept that Feron is not there to appreciate it. He can almost imagine the look of satisfaction on the Governor’s face; it was an expression he had seen frequently in their early days, when Paris had been shaped by his desires.

He watches through a crack in the wooden shutter and feels a savage sort of pleasure as the Musketeers fall to their knees. They are not so different from him anymore. Now they know how it feels to lose their North Star, clinging to a rock without any hope of direction.

 

-

 

If he once was a gladiator, he is nothing but a slave once more. He’s back to being the scum on the streets, a role he slips into surprisingly easily. The stench of the gutter has never really left him.

He remembers the first time Feron ever called him ‘Captain’, the word curling in his mouth like a badge of honour. The way he had undressed, unashamedly, in front of the Governor and pulled on the fine garb he had procured. The unmistakeable warmth in his belly at the thought Feron had chosen these clothes specially for him.

He studies the gold chain in his hands, and finds he cannot bear to part with it, nor the memory of Feron placing it around his neck like a medal. He stows it in his new jacket, a burning reminder of what he once was.

 

-

 

He is joining Feron in the grave. He knows it as soon as the Musketeer corners him in the street. Perhaps, if he wanted, he could fight his way through the crowd of people boxing him in. A wooden rake is no match for a sword after all. But, in truth, he aches to feel the press of steel between his own ribs.

And then the Musketeer throws Feron’s name at him. He pushes forwards, a final fight in his bones. But he is too weary, in both limbs and heart. He knows the battle is won.

He wonders if he’ll see him again. Feron snatched him from oblivion and remade him in his image. Whatever state their souls are in, they are the same. They are not men built for God.

Most people expect to meet their maker when they die—he knows that he will.

 


End file.
